The Truth May Vary
by renwhit
Summary: Just another Post-Reichenbach. Song-Fic based off of Of Monsters and Men's "Little Talks"


The Truth May Vary

Bold-Sherlock

Underlined-both

Italics - john

_AN - sorry, the song is a bit out of order (I put the refrain first, then all the verses, then the refrain again at the end). I hope you enjoy all the same_!

* * *

**Don't listen to a word I say **

_The screams all sound the same. _

Sherlock POV 

The phone conversation with John was one of the hardest things he ever had to do. Telling him, "I'm a fake, I lied to you, I'm a fraud," and on and on. A part of him just knew that John must believe him, for his own sake. If he thought Sherlock was a terrible person, he wouldn't take it as hard. John, so sentimental. However, another, very deep part of Sherlock was whispering, '_Don't believe me. Trust me._'

John POV 

His best friend was standing at the top of St. Bart's, looking down at him. His hands were out to either side, then he was falling, falling, down to the pavement. No no no _nonononoNO_. John ran forward, thinking, hoping, praying, he could break Sherlock's fall. Suddenly, a bike was hitting him, and he hit the ground just as Sherlock did. His body was numb, the people's voices around him like buzzing in his ears. He stumbled forward, holding onto a small hope that someone, something, could have stopped his friend's fall. But no, it was too late, much too late. There was Sherlock, lying on the ground, much too still. "Let me through, I'm a doctor, he's my friend," John managed to choke out. And there were people all around him, concerned hands on his shoulder, kind words, but he didn't hear or see or feel any of it. They were just buzzing in his ears, pointless, meaningless. He only had eyes for Sherlock and the cold, cold hand in his. Sherlock was normally cold, but not like this. And his eyes, his bright blue eyes, standing out in stark contrast to the red, red on his face, red on the concrete, red all around.

And Sherlock was gone.

_I don't like walking around this old and empty house._

**So hold my hand, I'll walk with you my dear **

_The stairs creak as I sleep, it's keeping me awake _

**It's the house telling you to close your eyes **

John POV 

He wasn't sure if he could face 221B by himself. When he did manage to work up the courage to open the door, he was struck by how... quiet the flat was. His shoulders were slumped and his face grim, but he knew he had to brave it eventually. He went up the stairs and looked around. The flat was very cold and empty without his flatmate. John took a deep breath, then set to work.

The flat was even emptier when he was finished. No heads or various fingers in the fridge, no experiments all over the table, no random newspapers haphazardly sprawled on the coffee table. The only places he didn't touch were Sherlock's violin and bedroom. The worst part was, when he went to bed that night, he could of sworn he heard Sherlock racing up and down the stairs, excited for another case.

_Some days I can't even dress myself._

**It's killing me to see you this way. **

John POV

He was so weighed down. His limp came back. His head hurt most days. He rarely slept for fear of the nightmares that plagued him when he did. He was barely functioning. He hadn't been back to work since the Fall, but his rent was being paid. He suspected Mycroft had a hand in that. So he stayed home in his misery.

Sherlock POV 

He watched as John cleaned the flat through the grainy cameras hidden around the house, courtesy of his brother. A strange, foreign pang went through his chest watching as John just sat by the empty fireplace with a cuppa. Why did he care? He had more important things to focus on, mainly Moriarty's circle. This emotion would only hold him back. He closed his eyes for a moment, the got up and walked away from his computer, but the ache stayed.

_There's an old voice in my head that's holding me back _

**Well tell her that I miss our little talks. **

John POV 

He sat by the empty, cold fireplace. He wished there was a fire, but then he wished for a lot of things. He wanted Sherlock back, he wanted the media to just shut up about the Fall, he wanted Mycroft and Lestrade and Ms. Hudson to stop giving him those looks full of concern and pity and sadness, as if they were just waiting for him to fall apart. He was in the Army for God's sakes. Friends of his had died before! None had struck him like this though. Sherlock seemed untouchable, like he could never die. Obviously, this wasn't the case. He could imagine what Sherlock would say if he saw him now, wallowing in misery. _Stop being so sentimental. I thought you were better than this. _

_Soon it will all be over, buried with our past_

**We used to play outside when we were young and full of life and full of love. **

Sherlock POV 

This hunt was one of the most exciting ones he had ever been on. It was also the one he wanted to go on the least. He had had great times in London, deducing all kinds of cases. The rooftop chases, the bombings, the mind-stimulating puzzles. The great, wonderful game. He would miss it. He shook his head. What was he doing? Caring this much would hold him back. There was no advantage in being sentimental. London is just a city, nothing more.

**Some days I feel like I'm wrong when I am right... **

**Your mind is playing tricks on you my dear. **

Sherlock POV 

These final puzzles that Moriarty set up were deliciously difficult. They kept Sherlock very busy. Even after he collapsed into bed in some cheap motel ridiculously early in the morning, his mind buzzed, still trying to solve one thing or another, keeping him up until the early hours of the morning. Occasionally, however, right before he fell asleep, the very small, sentimental part of him thought, '_Am I doing the right thing? Leaving John like that, with no warning. He must hate me._' And he had to shake himself and know that ridding Moriarty from this world is more important than his friends. That tiny part of him still held onto the wish of returning home and solving cases with Lestrade and drinking Mrs. Hudson's tea and ending the day with experiments while John looks on with equal parts exasperation and amazement. But it didn't matter what he wanted. This had to be done.

You're gone, gone, gone away,

I watched you disappear. 

All that's left is a ghost of you. 

Now we're torn, torn, torn apart, 

there's nothing we can do, 

Just let me go, we'll meet again soon. 

John POV 

He had watched him go, and he was never getting him back.

"My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is dead."

Gone.

Never to return.

They were ripped apart.

His Sherlock was gone, and he was never coming back.

**Now wait, wait, wait for me, please hang around **

_I'll see you when I fall asleep. _

Sherlock POV 

This was is. The home stretch. If he remembered correctly, which of course he did, he had been gone for 2 years, 7 months, and 8 hours. He was almost finished, if he had deduced it correctly, which of course he had. He had approximately 5 to 6 months before he could relax, depending on whether or not a certain sniper went to a certain bar or not. _Wait for me John. I'm almost finished. Hold on. _

John POV 

John did not want to go to sleep. He knew if he did, there would be the nightmares again, and this time, thinking of Sherlock couldn't chase them away because he was the nightmare. Him, falling through the air. Him, lying on the ground, so cold and so red and so pale, so deathly pale. There was no way he'd get any rest from sleep. However, he had promised Ms. Hudson. He laid down on his bed, trying to think of anything but Sherlock and red and cold.

Hey!

Don't listen to a word I say

Hey!

The screams all sound the same.

Hey!

Though the truth may vary this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore

John POV

His eyes opened. Had he somehow fallen asleep? His alarm read 10:13. He had somehow slept in. He thought back. No nightmares that night. Were they gone? Or just giving him a break? He shook his head, then stumbled tiredly into the kitchen, finding a cold cup of tea, and a note.

_Morning, John _

_I brought in some groceries for you. I was going to wake you up, but you just looked so peaceful, and I didn't want to interrupt a good night's sleep. I also made you some tea. _

_I hope you have a good day!_

_Ms. Hudson _

John smiled a bit. For once, he didn't mind her mollycoddling. He felt... happy. Maybe he would ask Sherlock if he wanted to... John's cold fingers wrapped around the equally cold mug, as he settled into his chair, knowing he probably wouldn't move for the rest of the day.

Sherlock POV 

He hated to admit it, but he wanted to go home, back to 221B Baker Street. He knew for a fact that John hadn't moved, thanks to Mycroft. He was almost done with this job, anyway. Just a few, much smaller messes to mop up. Plus, he missed John. And Ms. Hudson. And Lestrade. Not Anderson or Donovan so much. Even putting up with them, though, was worth it to see his only friends in the world again. He hated this feeling in is chest, this need to see them. However, the only way to get rid of it would be to go back to London. So return to London he must.

The plane ride back was very long, and so very dull. It was very difficult to hold back his observations on the plane ride, like the fact that the stewardess was a lesbian, but hiding it, or that the woman in 15J was having an affair with the man in 12H. It was so obvious, it was boring. As soon as the plane touched down, Sherlock was collecting his things, eager to get out of this cage of idiots as soon as possible. Once he was out, he hailed a cab, promising double pay to get to Baker St. as soon as possible. When he finally got to his home, he payed the cabbie, bounded out of the car and... Stood there. Was John ready to see him alive? More importantly, was he himself ready to be a part of life at 221B Baker St. again? Well, he would soon find out.

Sherlock raised his hand and, without hesitation, knocked three times.

_AN - What did you think? Was it good? Terrible? Leave reviews, and critiques are always welcomed!_


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